


sowing season

by wegotodecember (imaginedecember)



Series: the carry home waltz [5]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 09:49:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17444585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginedecember/pseuds/wegotodecember
Summary: John's got a lot of growing up to do.And a whole hell of a lot of thinking.Can be read alone, but with caution, as things do carry over. Spoilers for the whole game.





	sowing season

**Author's Note:**

> **Can be read alone, with caution, as things do carry over. And spoilers for the whole game**.
> 
>  
> 
> **This piece has two parts. First part takes place before John meets with Arthur, then later Hosea and Dutch. Second part is after the fourth part, 'all the seedlings.'**
> 
>  
> 
> **And I swear this is the last part for the series! I just couldn't not put in our wild boy's p.o.v. over the whole thing.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Background:**
> 
>  
> 
> All the events that happened in RDR2 happened, except Arthur doesn't have TB, and Hosea lived. I also gave Arthur an extra ability, Mother Eye, which has the same properties as the other eyes and is where Arthur can see both human nature, in the form of like auras or moods, and nature herself, so like weather events. He works for the government relaying weather to them and is a trapper.
> 
> I've also added a prophecy where it is essentially fate that all four men, Arthur, John, Hosea and Dutch, are a complete set. Together they're whole and the events during RDR2 reflect that. 
> 
> Song title credit: Sowing season (yeah) by Brand New

So, John was standing there, right? In some bum fuck forest that looked like all the other forests in the world. 

He was standing there.

And he was…well, help him as a damn near breathed and wept, he was running again.

Abigail had been on him, nearly being his damn shadow, as she whirled around the house after him like tornadoes spun from black water. Tornadoes. Jack had been reading about them and it made John’s skin crawl. And, no, damn it that was not because he ran. 

It was because Abigail was getting real good at seeing his tells, throwing them aside like they were threads, and picking up the real, true things inside John that not even he wanted to bring to light quite yet. So, yeah, maybe like tornadoes. Like debris. Heart debris. Debris from the heart. From down deep in those drowning depths. Water. Oceans.

John picked at his sopping wet clothes. Okay, so, maybe he had taken a dip before just standing there like a damn idiot trying to blend in with all the trees that looked like all the other damn trees that he had seen. But these trees were bare and full of bark, not pretty, spring leaves. Not pretty…

Well.

John kicked the tree.

His boot slit a new hole.

And he cursed to hell and high water over fucking Arthur damn Morgan.

“Screw you, you pretty piece of-. Ruined my damn boot did you? Ruined my damn-.”

Heart.

Heart.

Debris from the heart.

John took his boots off. Threw them. Patted his wet pants. “Need to keep a pair of extra clothes for you, Marston, when you next decide to swim…oh wait, you can’t swim!” All those words of his were very gruff and strong and pretty and very Morgan-esque.

Didn’t listen to anything that man said and look at him now. Near drowned. For the hundredth time. Left soaking wet. For the hundredth time. And his horse was staring him down with this look, this, told you look, that made him want to combust. Or disintegrate. Whichever came first!

And, god, the damn looks!

Abigail was starting to get them too! Looking like Arthur with his sad eyes, dumping all that empty sadness on to John and yet somehow wishing that John wouldn’t say a damn thing about it. And John hadn’t. And look what had happened. He had left Arthur to die on that mountain. But he…he lived…that…

“It’s Arthur, John. Charles…I saw him in town and he said he’s alive. He’s out there, John. Now, do what you do best, and run.”

Abigail had told him to run. 

That was new.

But the run was curled and dirty, it was heart sick, it was like-.

John had just vomited all over the stupid snowy ground. He pulled his wool coat tighter to him and cursed Abigail, cursed Arthur, cursed it all.

All them responsibilities and things he needed to take care of were building up around him like walls and he didn’t like walls. He liked open spaces and…well, he liked running, and wandering. Shit, he was good at that. And shooting. But walls and things he needed to dig down deep and just do? No. Never.

But, pretty as ever, Abigail had wrapped her arms around him and told him how good he was getting at listening to Jack’s things that he rambled about and turning them into things that John could get him. Like journals and books. Pay attention, that was what Abigail had told him. It had come as easy as breathing to her but to John, it was like asking him to swim.

So, that was why he had just drowned in the river.

He was…paying attention.

Not to the rushing of its waters nor the rocks that he had tripped over.

But to the world.

To the people he loved that were stuck in it.

That went turned over in a flaming barrel when he had slipped on the rocks and tumbled in, screaming and inhaling lungfuls of water. So, vomit the water up. Start again on dry ground this time.

So, he tried to think. Huh, thinking, it hurt. It-.

White. Snow was rolling on the ground, coating it and sticking to it, the cold making it last far longer than anyone wanted it to. And the trees were bare. There weren’t much animals about.

Now, after the superficial was done, John dug in deeper-.

“You gotta look in here, John. C’mon.” Her voice, so worn down and roughed up from John’s crap, the crap storm, no, the crap tornado that was always a spinning around her. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, freezing and sticking wet, and thought. He dug and dug and-.

Arthur, jesus.

His eyes were getting freezing and sticking wet too but he kept going, going, going-.

John had ran because he didn’t love Abigail, not like the kind that was forever, that wasn’t friendly. John had ran because he didn’t want Jack. That sounds cruel and it was, but…it was a responsibility that John had never wanted. 

Why would he allow a son to be born into this world?

Why would he want a son to turn out like him?

Why would he want all this shit that’s been buried deep inside him trickle down to an innocent child?

He didn’t love Abigail. Knew there’d be pointless fights and that the kid would get caught in that. Like debris in a tornado. Knew that John wasn’t much of a role model. Not like Arthur would’ve been. Or Hosea, too. Charles, even. 

Good wasn’t John’s style.

Trying was.

So, John had tried to just set everything aside, to love Abigail somehow and sometimes. All for the kid really. But it had all tumbled out and underneath him. So fragile and stupid were those walls. Yes, so poorly built. Barely even constructed. Skeletal hope, as it was.

And look at what had happened.

John would have to work with Jack on the gang’s undoing, on Dutch’s actions and how they were so very wrong, and how Arthur and Hosea and Charles and some of the others were the good ones, and why they were the good ones.

And why, hell, John was trying. That. He’d tell Jack that but lord knows if it’d make sense. But he’d be willing, so goddamn willing, to try with Jack, to ensure that the cycle of his shittiness wouldn’t infect his son. What his son would do with that information was, sadly, up to the boy. But trying. John would die trying.

He stared out at the snow and at the blinding sun that was also trying its hardest to melt the icy particles. 

His heart felt…a little lighter. It was pounding gently. But, then. Arthur.

John dug in his pocket and pulled out the deer that he had been sorrowfully whittling the past few days like a mourning widow. Had, at first, pulled his usual cards and hid it from Abigail. Did it while they were long gone in dreams, by candlelight, outside, usually, as if the burning, frigid air would sizzle any tears away, as if it would freeze his heart enough to get through more than just a measly drag of his knife against the wood. 

It was starting to look more like a deer, thankfully. The ears were a bit chipped but whatever. Imperfections? John himself was an imperfection. It was his trademark. It made the deer his. And it would be Arthur’s. Hopefully. If this whole running away thing panned out.

And, dear god, what was John gonna say?

He squeezed the deer. 

Oh, god, he felt like vomiting again. Like, imagine him just riding up to wherever Arthur was, and handing him the deer like oh, sorry, I’ve been making this thing by candlelight and crying uncontrollably, will you forgive me and take me back?

Will you…will you…

No, not that word. 

But, yes, yes-.

“I don’t understand you, John Marston! You carry so much on you and you won’t tell me a damn thing.” Then, harsh, pointed, sniper’s scope, “I know it’s about Arthur. You always get this look on your face.” 

John’s reply, burning, spilling, “What look?”

Abigail’s hesitation. A gulf of silence built from years of it. “Like you’re in love with him.”

That word.

Love.

Yep. John was vomiting again. And the deer tumbled into the snow. John spat out a few chucks, and wiped his mouth. With the glove that wasn’t tainted, he reached for the deer and grasped it. He held it. He cradled it. Warm and wooden. Deers bounding through dreams, on to paper.

He remembered when he had first caught a glimpse of them in Arthur’s journal. Arthur must’ve felt Hosea’s eyes on him telling to be good or something to the new kid because he had tilted the journal towards him and let him flip through deers and deers and more deers. Just bounding along the pages at a soft, unraveled speed. Little trickles of herbs, or cursive inlaid. 

But always deer.

That was why John had chosen that animal because it meant something to Arthur. And John could feel it, like a wave underneath the wood and in its grains. Softness and love. And warmth. And Earth and nature. A hook and an anchor. And teasingness that would always set some weird fire in John. He loathed to admit it but when Arthur’s words got sharpened, something in John went a little muddy like some fainting, blushing thing.

That was what Arthur had meant to him.

And maybe…maybe all that was rolled into one single word.

And maybe…maybe John hadn’t thought long and hard about something that had been years in the making until he had left it all on that mountain to wither and die.

He couldn’t get Abigail’s long and hard sobs outta his head. It took a while to not hear it every moment of every day. She had cried for that man, had cried for their Earth, their stability, for the man that was there for Jack and Abigail when John had been so stupid. 

And John had hid away.

Because he was good at that too.

But…slowly, with Abigail’s help, with-. “You have it in you, John. I know you do. Look at what you built for us. Look at all this. It says so much but I need to hear it too.”

So, he said, out loud, “I love Arthur Morgan.” Then, with a huff and a tick of his mouth, because that word was still sour sick and new. As sparkling as the white snow. As strong as the sun melting its surface. As wild as a black water tornado bursting through to cast the heart to and fro. “I love Arthur Morgan.”

Saying it again felt like a hat slipping on to his head and a man telling him to go.

John fell into the snow. He was wet already so there was no care there. There was just…

He took the knife out and whittled the antlers into place.

He held it up to the sun and cackled, smiled, giggled, wept at its shine.

He didn’t know what he was gonna say but as Abigail as his guide, he’d try, and he’d reveal.

+

See, John was right.

He was good at trying. At revealing. 

He wished he could’ve had Abigail with him to tell her that it had went well, that he had Arthur, that, hell, Hosea was well and alive, and that, well, Dutch was still an idiot but maybe that could work out too. And, god, the stories he’d tell Jack. He would’ve been jealous, for once, of his pa who now had fantastical stories that’d rival what he was reading. About Arthur’s abilities, how he saw the world. And of prophecies.

It still didn’t feel real. But, here, now-.

He had his hands pressed to Arthur’s. They were sitting across from one another, inside the tent they were sharing out in the Grizzles, knees knocking into each other, and feeling like teenagers again as they giggled about how stupid they must’ve looked but John was curious. 

“So, you can’t just give me the ability?” John felt nothing travel between their hands and he was sad about it. He wanted to know how Arthur’s eyes worked damn it but the world was cruel. 

Arthur laughed and he looked so…good. Happy. Some sort of lightness to him that rivaled the built-in sadness that was cradled in his eyes, that was carved by mountains and the lions that roamed its shadows. 

Through all their talks, John had taken pages from Abigail’s book on how to handle him and they had worked like charms on Arthur. This closeness between them was new. It felt strong, sure. 

And breathing in Arthur. Just musk and smoke and some sort of strange herby headiness mixed with a sweetness. Earth with all its intricacies mixed up in Arthur. Sweet elixir. Sewn into every thread that the man wore. It made, well-. “’M glad we’re back to normal again.” John said it because he could, because there was this openness. 

He wasn’t gonna get yelled at. He wasn’t gonna get shut down on. And he wasn’t gonna do the same to Arthur. 

Arthur smiled, something worn and jagged, and John felt himself inch closer, felt sweat build on the palms of his hands. But, then, Arthur dropped his hands to rest on John’s knees, somewhere caught between a hole in the fabric and the beginnings of one, and John still felt suspended when Arthur got close enough. But the stupid man stopped. John was about to pitch a fit before Arthur, quietly slipping these words in between them, “I don’t think you’ve ever been normal, wild boy.”

John danced dizzily between being annoyed at Arthur’s name calling, as if the man was normal too, but he just…got all small and twitchy with the nickname. And Arthur, smiling wider now, and sliding his hands up John’s knees. Arthur knew what he did to him. Sure as shit. Why did John show his cards again? For this. Nah. Never. No-.

The switch.

John could see it. Jesus. Arthur’s eyes got all black and deep. They were like depths of lonely thoughts and night. It felt like holding a mirror up to that self of yours that you had thought was buried deep. Marked a grave and everything only to rip it up. And Arthur’s breathing went slow, syrupy. Swirling herbs in a cup to melt. 

John watched, suspended. And oh. Oh.

When John had blindfolded Arthur to get him working through his abilities with John at his side, like Abigail had done, to be John’s guide, he hadn’t seen Arthur’s eyes, had only felt the slowness in Arthur, the dizzy swaying that came after.

But his eyes…

“Thought you would’ve turned rabid or something.” Because, really, John imagined Arthur snarling and barking whenever he did the switch. Imagined eyes, wild and red and shooting fire and bullets.

But, well, that was never Arthur. Dark and swirling. And-.

“Rabid ‘s you, John.” Arthur murmured it in between the switch from black gaze to his normal eyes, green and blue and Earthy and all of nature swirled up in them, sparkling now from firelight. And how his wool coat was blue and everything about the man seemed blue. But clearer now, less sorrowfully tinged and more like rolling, spinning skies above.

John pouted. “Thanks. Charming. Didn’t I call you charming? I meant stupid.” He leaned forward, closed that dizzy gap, and bit Arthur’s bottom lip. Arthur growled, rumbling low and John couldn’t help. He caved. He kissed him. But Arthur grasped his jaw and held him back. Then, because really John deserved to know, “What’s the switch for?”

Arthur frowned. “Mother eye.” 

John rose an eyebrow. “Think I’m a liar, Morgan?” 

Soothing. A thumb down his lip and to his pulse point. John shivered at the warmth. Arthur had always ran hot like John’s very own campfire whereas John always ran cold. Arthur had told him once it was because he used all his body heat to think, which, really, was honestly how it was because John had been doing so much thinking lately that he couldn’t stop himself from shivering. And this stupid winter and the storm didn’t help much. So, warmth. Heat. Melting heat. Down his throat then to tease at his shirt collar. Jesus. 

John was bending towards Arthur again, wolf to moon, just as Arthur said, “Just wanted to make sure that…” He cleared his throat, his thumb skirting off course to nick at the threads. Smoothed the wrinkles down and John watched the swirling movement. “’M wanted, I guess.”

John huffed as he grabbed Arthur’s hand and stopped him. He looked into those stupid eyes and said, “Just ask me next time.” Then, well, when those eyes got sorrowful again, he added, “I’m not going anywhere, Arthur Morgan.”

Thought, suddenly, of Micah. Disgusting rat. And how, if Micah had known about Arthur’s abilities, if he had known how deep the whole four parts ran, how twisted he could’ve made it, how he wouldn’t’ve left Arthur on that mountain to die but to be a part of whatever sick plans he had. He thought of Dutch. Putting a well-deserved bullet into Micah’s empty skull, empty heart. He thought of all the shit that had happened. The betrayal that was still pitter pattering along his heart, guiding him. He wouldn’t forgive Dutch. Never. But move on, kinda, maybe. 

But, he guessed, that in some strange way, Dutch had made sure Arthur got back to him. Charles, mostly. But Dutch, sort of.

God, he could’ve lost Arthur entirely.

He could’ve…

He shoved Arthur’s legs open with his knees and crawled in between his legs until they were chest to chest and John could wrap himself around the man. This. This vulnerability, openness. Try as he might. Oh, John was trying. He was-.

Arthur wrapped his arms around him, strong and big arms and held him tight, warm. Drawer’s hands that cradled trees to grow, that gave everyone, strangers and all, loving hands and warm words. A man who was good and honorable, righteous. A man who had disliked who he had become, who had shattered mirrors because of the monster that looked into its disintegrated parts. 

A man who had reshaped himself to overcome Dead eye, malicious targets all for nothing, all for shit, all for regrets – hell, Dutch. To Eagle eye, let nature soothe the wounds, let nature try and guide him, let the deers bound and bound and endlessly bound until they led him down a right, good path, the truthful kind that he knew was right from the damn beginning but had never been strong enough to follow it. To Mother eye, this here now, a tanglement of nature and human nature. That was Arthur. 

Human and complex and different and real and messed up and mixed up with mother nature. Her Earth, her stability, and her changing, spinning seasons. All different and a like, each to each. There were winter things about his actions and he eased them with summer and he was born again with spring.

And there were the hands skirting up his coat, wrinkling it and moving along his skin, warm and strong. Hands on his neck, cradling there and pressing. And John, collapsing in, and into, as he moved to rest on his knees. As Arthur rose up to meet him. As those eyes met his, glassy and as splashing as rivers, as drowning in them. 

Reveal. Reveal. Go below the superficial. Say what’s in here. John pressed his hands into Arthur’s chest, above his heart and repeated, just as strong, as sure, “I’m not going anywhere. I love you.”

And Arthur’s eyes on him and his hands kneading at John’s neck and his head bending down to kiss John’s collarbone, the skin that peaked out from beneath his shirt collar. John bent towards him and then kiltered when Arthur husked into his skin, “I love you too, wild boy.”

And it was easy, after that, letting the bad parts in.

And it was easy too, riding his horse alongside Arthur’s, to Beecher’s Hope.

And it was easy too, watching him swing a screaming and near tearful Jack around, who was dancing between, god just like his pa, being excited and rambling about his journal and all them stories he’s been reading to crying about Arthur being alive and well and real and there.

And it was easy too, reaching for Abigail and unfreezing her awakened sorrow for just a moment to hold her close and murmur into her hair, “I told him everything.” 

And her questionable gaze glimmering with hope, “John Marston, finally learning. How’d that go? Didn’t pass out on him, did ya?” 

And him, laughing, easy and rolling like winter hills, “I certainly did no such thing but-.”

And Arthur’s cry, “He almost did!”

Jovial, he was, even as John smacked Arthur upside the head. “No, I didn’t. But he, uh-.” Looked at Arthur, at that gaze of his, as warm and bounding as revealing, as finally, finally letting the bad parts in to make way for the light. “He loves me too.”

Abigail, in between them now, one hand in John’s, and the other in Arthur’s. “Well, it’s about damned time. Now, tell me them stories you spoke of?”

And, damn, it was easy, letting Arthur tell Jack fantastical stories that when he was older, would realize were true, that, well, Arthur never said they were lies. About prophecies and fates and whole parts. 

About letting yourself dig beneath the superficial to reveal a bleeding, pounding heart and an empty, lonely night thought of a soul. 

About exposing. Reworking. Finding. Merging two souls to one.

John looked at Arthur and knew.

He just..

He knew.


End file.
